To He Who Waits
by Anderida
Summary: Spike is under the tree, smoking & watching Buffy's house. Buffy wants a showdown. Does she get what she is looking for?


**To He Who Waits**

The uneasy feeling of being watched would not go away. Buffy paced the room, and then did a quick circuit of the house, checking each door and window to ensure they were secure. All was well, but the nagging feeling of being observed persisted. Buffy moved the living room curtain aside barely and scanned the street in front of her home.

There! A tell-tale red glow as someone drew on a cigarette whilst leaning against a tree just outside her front door. And Buffy knew that someone: Spike! How dare he! Did he think she didn't know that he spent evening after evening staring up at her home? Did he think she didn't see the pile of discarded cigarette stubs that had accumulated at the base of that particular tree? She had assumed that he would grow tired of his nightly surveillance if she just ignored it. But clearly he had not, so now she had to put a stop to this once and for all. She grabbed her coat from the hook in the hall and headed out of the house, intent on a showdown.

Seeing Buffy emerge from the house, Spike stubbed out his latest cigarette. He wasn't sure if he was embarrassed at being discovered at his nightly vigil or if this was the reason he was there; to see, and to be seen by, her. As Buffy strode across to where he was leaning against the trunk of a tree, he instinctively tensed and pushed away from the tree to stand upright.

"Spike," Buffy hissed, as she came within earshot, "what the hell do you think you are doing?"

Spike shrugged by way of reply.

"Why are you here?" Buffy demanded.

"Free country!" responded Spike defiantly, if a little sheepishly, his eyes fixed on the cigarette he had ground into the earth.

"I'm serious," continued Buffy, "why do you stand outside my home every night? What possible reason could you have for standing under this tree night after night staring up at my house? Explain this to me."

"What's to explain?" asked Spike. "I can stand where I want, when I want. None of your business what I do." He raised his eyes to hold her gaze.

"This is ridiculous!" Buffy was about to continue when her neighbour's porch lamp came on sending an arc of light across the grass verge to illuminate the two bickerers under the tree. Buffy caught hold of Spike's arm and dragged him away from the light, determined to resolve this once and for all, but away from prying eyes.

Spike let himself be hauled off into the dark partly because it had happened too quickly to react differently, and partly out of curiosity for what might happen next.

Stopping briefly in the first patch of darkness, Buffy turned to Spike and informed him, "This isn't over. We need to sort this out, but not here. I don't intend to put on a show for the whole neighbourhood. We need to go somewhere private, where we won't disturb anyone."

Still gripping his arm, she led Spike away from her house, towards the cemetery where Spike had his crypt. Spike shook his arm free and mumbled, "Ok, ok. No need to drag me." He fell in beside her, not sure what she expected of him.

As they approached the cemetery gates Spike asked, "What are we doing here?"

"Can you think of a better place to have this out? At least we won't disturb any of the residents here." Buffy continued into the cemetery, instinctively heading towards the section of the graveyard where Spike had his home.

Arriving at a small clearing in the headstones and vaults, in sight of the entrance to Spike's crypt, they both stopped.

Buffy turned to face Spike, but he inclined his head towards his home and said, "Since we're here we might as well be comfortable. You'd better come in."

He led the way his crypt and pushed the door open, standing back and motioning Buffy to enter. Once inside he closed the door and, before Buffy could speak, he asked gruffly, "Now do you mind telling me what this is all about?"

"What?" asked Buffy incredulously, turning so that she was facing Spike, standing close enough to see his eyes in the gloom of the crypt. "What this is about is: Why you are lying in wait outside my house each night?"

"Lying on wait?" Spike repeated questioningly as he slipped out of his black leather duster. "I'm not 'lying in wait'. I choose to take a stroll and have a smoke. What's it got to do with you where I smoke?" Throwing the coat across a chair, he moved away from Buffy further into the chamber he called home.

"What's it got to do with _me_?" It was Buffy's turn to repeat things. "It's my house you choose to smoke outside, every night, that's what it's got to do with me. Have you any idea how creepy that is? It's like your stalking me. You have to stop."

"Stalking you? I take a smoke under a convenient tree. How's that stalking?" Spike protested, but he kept his face averted, knowing that he couldn't brazen this out if he looked at her.

"You're exactly like a stalker, not accepting that their behaviour is in anyway unwanted or inappropriate." Buffy moved round trying to confront Spike face-to-face.

Spike turned away again, "You're making a big fuss over nothing. I don't know why you're getting so worked up about where I choose to smoke. Thought you'd be glad that someone's watching your back."

Buffy's arm shot out, grasped Spike's arm and spun him towards her. "Watching my back? Is that really what you are doing? I thought you were just out for an innocent smoke? Just why _exactly_ are you camped out in front of my house each night?" Buffy's eyes blazed with anger and she thought Spike had flinched when she had grabbed his arm.

For a moment their eyes met; hers, hard and unforgiving; his, abashed and apologetic. "The truth?" Spike asked softly.

"The truth!" demanded Buffy.

"I'm not sure I know for certain myself," Spike began in a low voice, "I tend not to think too much, just act on instinct, listen to my blood. But I think I go to make sure you're safe and," he paused, drawing in a long breath, "in the hope of seeing you."

"Seeing me?" queried Buffy, her eyes widening. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean all right." Spike's voice was suddenly harsh. "You know how I feel about you. But most of the time you act like I'm some kind of monster you can barely tolerate. But me, I'm a sad git. I can't just walk away so you can't hurt me anymore, like Angel." He spat his grandsire's name with contempt.

"No, I stay and I put up with every dirty look, every snide remark, every hurtful thing you do to me because being wounded by you is better than not having you in my life. So, if I choose to spend time waiting around outside your house, then perhaps it's because part of me hopes I will catch a glimpse of you at the window, or you will come and sit on your steps, or at least I can have the satisfaction of knowing that I am helping to keep you safe. Like I said, I'm a sad git!" Spike looked away.

Spike's words seemed to linger as an echo in the stone crypt, as if the silence that followed wasn't silence at all.

Buffy was first to speak: "Why do you stay?" she asked quietly.

"Buffy, love, if I knew why, I would be able to break this hold you have over me," Spike said with a sigh. "All I can tell you is what my blood tells me to do. It's instinct, not logic. I'm a vampire, love. I've been reacting to my blood for over a century. It becomes second nature, I can't rationalise it, just tell you the results. I'm sorry if that isn't the answer you wanted to hear." Spike leant on a large tomb and dropped his head. He looked crushed.

"I'm sorry," Buffy mumbled, barely audible. "But you have to stop this." As she said this stepped up to the tomb, reached out and laid her hand on Spike's shoulder in an act of compassion.

The moment her hand touched his t-shirt she knew it had been the wrong thing to do. Immediately, an intangible spark jumped between them. She felt it, and she knew Spike had too as his shoulders shuddered, almost imperceptibly but she had felt his reaction. There was the briefest of moments when Buffy could have withdrawn her arm and drawn back from the brink but she didn't.

Spike turned, and Buffy knew that he saw past her defensive facade and deep into her soul, as he searched her green eyes with his liquid blue ones. There was no hiding place.

Spike slid his arms around Buffy's waist and drew her to him. Buffy's hand slid from his shoulder to the top of his arm, touching his firm, cool skin; she steadied herself on the flat top of the tomb with her other hand.

"Spike, I…." Buffy began in a hoarse whisper.

Spike held a finger to her lips as he murmured softly, "Let me show you how to follow your blood. I know your blood is speaking to you. I see it in your eyes; I can feel it in you touch. You weren't ready before, but you are now."

Taking her hand from the tomb, Spike raised it to his lips and kissed her palm reverently. Another spark flashed between them, leaving a warmth behind in them both, like the tail of a comet in the evening sky.

Holding her hand tightly in his, against his chest, Spike continued, "This isn't alien to you Buffy. You follow your blood when you fight. I've seen it in you. Your blood tells you when to parry, when to dodge, when to thrust. It tells you when to run, when to stand your ground and when to push home your advantage. This isn't something you learn in Giles' training sessions. It's something you _feel_."

"If you waited to think through your next move in the heat of the battle you'd be brown bread (_Cockney rhyming slang for 'dead'. A._). You know it. Learning moves and learning about your enemy's strengths and weaknesses makes sense. But it can't protect you as much as listening to your blood."

Buffy's eyes had broken contact with Spike's and her gaze had drifted down into a dark corner of the crypt. Spike raised her head; "Look at me," he commanded, his voice stern, his face fervent but gentle. He waited until he could look once more into the green depths that made his dead heart beat again.

"You know all about what your blood does for you. It protects you; keeps you safe. It has never once let you down. Why would it let you down now? Trust your blood. Trust how you _feel_. Let your blood guide you."

Spike bought his face down towards Buffy's, holding her gaze as he did, fearing to break it would be to break the spell. At the very last moment he let his eyes fall to her lips, and then he was kissing her.

And Buffy felt her blood scream at her, loudly and with perfect clarity. She returned Spike's kiss with urgent passion. She was his, just as he was hers. She could no longer rationalise it, ignore it, deny it. Buffy was home now.

Fin


End file.
